


only happy when it's complicated

by thatworldinverted



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Mob, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fingerfucking, Flirting, Masturbation, Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People did not, as a rule, fetch up outside of a mob-owned coffee shop like <i>Argent’s</i> without purpose, and never in crowds. No one stopped to chat over an espresso and a scone. They slipped in quietly and left quickly, often through the back. Allison Argent, the Boss's daughter, is more than happy to facilitate such behavior... until Lydia Martin, consigliere for the Hale Family, walks through the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only happy when it's complicated

The coffee shop did not attract attention. It did not invite study, or even - at times - occupancy. Faded silver lettering on the front window spelled out one word: _Argent’s._ No “open” sign hung on the heavy wooden door, no cheerful lighting warmed its solitary window. 

People did not, as a rule, fetch up outside of _Argent’s_ without purpose, and never in crowds. No one stopped to chat over an espresso and a scone. They slipped in quietly and left quickly, often through the back. The three people lingering outside the front door were, then, an unexpected occurrence.

“So this is peace,” says one of them, tossing blond curls back over her shoulder with a flick of her head. The woman was not attired for anything that might have been described as ‘peaceful.’ She was wrapped in black leather, and the stiletto heel of her boots only made one contemplate other sharp objects she might have tucked away.

“Some peace,” the man replies wryly. “Argent shot me once, you know.” 

“This is peace.” The third voice brooks no further comments. “And so help me, Stiles, if you mess it up, I’ll have Erica shoot you.” 

Lydia Martin, consigliere for the Hale Family, stalks towards the door of the shop. Hesitation was for the weak and the uninteresting. What she sees when she stepped inside would have stopped a lesser person, but nothing phases Lydia, and her bodyguards are too well-trained to falter. 

Dim interior, as expected, high-backed booths with plenty of privacy. The woman behind the counter, however, shines like a beacon. A tumble of glossy brown hair framing pale skin and plush lips. 

_Damn_. 

Allison Argent, the boss’ daughter. Lydia should have expected she’d be running the show here; this one was no wilting mafia princess. 

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?” Allison’s tone of voice is perfectly normal, but there’s something in the quirk of her mouth, glossy and amused, that Lydia had found… irksome… from the day they met. 

Lydia drags her eyes away from unnecessarily pink Argent lips. “Three dry cappuccinos, please.” 

She can feel Stiles twitch ever-so-minutely behind her, but his craving for over-sweetened, frothy, chocolate-sprinkled drinks is not her concern right now. This visit has one purpose, as declared by the treaty so recently hammered out between their Families. There had been too many encroachments by certain undesirables lately; they couldn’t afford to be at war, tearing the city up between them. The Argents and the Hales were old blood, a century of rules and history, grudging respect built. Together, they’d be better able to defend their interests. 

The negotiations had been fraught, everyone wound tight, hands straying to the not-so-concealed bulges in their jackets. Lydia had been in her element, sleek and fierce and deadly. Derek Hale may lead the family, but she is their architect. Watching. Assessing. Planning. She had weighed and measured the Argents; first from behind a semi-automatic, and then across a conference room table. 

Allison Argent’s subtle yet insistent pursuit of Lydia was a fact she’d left out of the three-inch dossier she presented to Derek.

The tap of porcelain on wood snaps Lydia from her thoughts. 

“Enjoy your coffee,” Allison said, sliding two other cups onto the counter without taking her eyes from Lydia. “Can I get you anything else?” 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Lydia murmurs. She waits until they found a table as far from the counter as possible before taking a single, cautious sip. Hmm. Apparently the Argents can make coffee, as well as manage a third of the city’s criminal enterprises. 

“How long do we have to stay here?” Stiles whispers. He rubs at his shoulder and peers around as if expecting to get shot again at any moment. 

“Until the conventions are satisfied or you finish your coffee, whichever comes last,” Lydia snaps. 

Erica laughs, nudging Stiles. “Just don’t spend too much time eyeing up the Argent there, or her father really might shoot you again. I’ve heard he doesn’t like boys hanging around his daughter.”

“Eh, not my type anyway.” 

“Yeah,” Erica leers, “cause she’s not -” 

Lydia sets her cup down with a sharp look. Some gossip did not belong outside the Family. Perhaps it was time to go. 

They’re halfway to the door when the sound of her name on Argent lips stops Lydia in her tracks. 

“Miss Martin - I believe you dropped this.” 

Lydia slides the slip of paper into her pocket without looking. They’ve been back back at the Hale compound for an hour before she’s willing to read it. 

_I know you have my number. Call me._

*

She has a plan. To be precise, she has four plans, which is three less than she prefers, but acceptable under the circumstances. Each has the same goal - to put this ridiculous flirtation to an end. 

The whole thing is absurd, really. Lydia has her pick of beautiful people, both men and women, and Allison Argent is not worth the trouble she could bring to the Family. There may be peace between them at the moment, but these things change without warning. And the rumors of Christopher Argent’s ruthlessness extend to his only child. 

A liaison with the Argent daughter is ludicrous to contemplate, and she intends to let Allison know that in no uncertain terms. 

With that thought in mind, Lydia pushes open the door to Argent’s and steps inside. 

She expected to find the same scene as yesterday; instead, she walks in on what appears to be Allison closing an arms deal while wearing a dress covered in yellow flowers. The unlikely contrast makes Lydia go tight and hot, but she shoves the feeling down, locking a business smile on her face and extending a hand. While the Hales and the Argents don’t handle the same merchandise, they do have many of the same clients. 

“Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Webster, what an unexpected surprise. How lovely to see you.” 

A pair of slickly professional smiles greets her. “Ms. Martin, a pleasure as always.” Jenkins lingers over her hand, and Lydia looks away from the irritated wrinkle of Allison’s nose. 

“As you can see, gentlemen,” Allison interrupts, “I’m afraid I have another meeting.” 

Briefcases change hands as Allison ushers her clients firmly towards the door. Not until it swings closed does she turn back to Lydia. “You’re still wearing your business face.” 

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” Lydia replies. 

“Would you prefer a compliment on the knife strapped to your thigh, _Ms. Martin_? Argent manufacturing, if I’m not mistaken; high praise, coming from a Hale.” 

Lydia smiles. “The best on the market. You wouldn’t blame a girl for being prepared, would you?” 

Allison grins in response, that damn sly quirk at the corner of her mouth that shouldn’t make Lydia wet between the thighs, but God, it does.

“And you’re always prepared, aren’t you, Lydia? Do you remember the first day we met?” 

Lydia remembers. Even given their line of work, she doesn’t often have the opportunity to stab a man with a hat pin. “My hat was really never the same after that.” 

“Neither was his hand, but even my father thought the asshole got what he deserved.” 

Lydia shrugs. “I was eighteen. He should consider himself lucky that I got to him before the rest of the Family.” 

“And if I tried the same thing?”

She tugs her skirt up just enough to reveal a hint of the knife Allison had spotted. “This is a lot bigger than a hat pin.” 

There’s a half-second of silence before Allison bursts into peals of laughter, and Lydia is hopelessly, helplessly charmed.

 _Damn._

*

Lydia Martin does not pace. She is not the nervous sort. Lydia Martin reclines at leisure, or she sits regally. Occasionally she strides with energy and purpose. She _does not_ pace. 

This was the third such reminder she’s given herself, and yet here she is, pacing. Bedroom door to vanity table and back, over and over. With a huff she wouldn’t have admitted to, Lydia collapses backwards onto the bed.

Allison Argent is… a problem. God, the woman’s intriguing, though. And lovely. All those brown curls, skin pale enough to match Lydia’s own... she can just imagine what they’d look like, tangled up in Lydia’s dark sheets

Her hand slides down her thigh almost of its own volition, nails prickling her skin as she drags her fingers back up, underneath her skirt. Her last few lovers have all been men, entertaining but easily disposable; stress relief as she dealt with the Argents. Allison Argent would not be disposable. 

Lydia’s fingers brush the lace of her panties, and her eyes flutter shut at the sensation. She lets herself imagine having Allison in her bed. How sweet she’d be when that pretty pink mouth drops open. The sounds she’d make if Lydia pushed her knees apart and dipped down to lick at what was doubtless an equally pretty pink cunt. 

Lydia wiggles out of her panties, sliding them down past her knees and kicking them off the bed. She doesn’t want a toy, not tonight - just the slippery slide of her fingers into her pussy. One hand gropes in her bedside drawer for the lube; the wet sensation against her skin makes her think of pushing her fingers into Allison’s mouth, making her stretch and gasp. 

Fuck, the first brush of Lydia’s fingers against her clit is so _good_. Slow circles, teasing, a flick across the top just for the jolt of sensation it sends singing through her body. How would Allison want it? Slow and soft, Lydia’s tongue lapping against her? Or would she hold Lydia down, use a strap-on, take her ass until she was stretched open and fucked out? 

Lydia pushes two fingers into her pussy, a hot pressure that makes her moan. It isn’t nearly enough, though, not when she wants to feel used and sloppy, taken. She shoves four of her fingers in hard, gasping at the burn and stretch, rolling her hips up into the feeling. Maybe Allison would use her whole hand, fuck, split Lydia apart around her fist. It’s one of the few things Lydia has never done, and her whole pussy clenches at the thought of Allison filling her up.

Everything is building, fast and hard, fingers working in her cunt, clit grinding against the palm of her hand. Lydia’s breath comes in short, sharp pants that fill up the room, the long muscles of her thighs tightening as her hips rock and twitch. She craves this, needs to come, wants Allison’s lips and mouth and hands, wants to _taste_ her. God, that’s it, just that, yes - Allison pressing that sweet pussy down against Lydia’s mouth, pinning her to the bed and riding her face, flooding her senses while Lydia comes underneath her, sobbing out her pleasure straight into Allison’s cunt. 

And it’s that thought, the smell and taste and sound of Allison in her head, that sends Lydia over the edge, free-falling into a shattering orgasm. 

When she finally comes down, shaking, quick sobbing breaths settle into something calmer. She fishes her phone from where it’s trapped in the tumbled blankets. 

Her fingers tremble as she types out a text, but she attributes that to the orgasm. Lydia Martin doesn’t get nervous. 

*

Derek calls her into his office the next afternoon. His feet are up on the desk, face faux-casual, but there’s a tilt to his eyebrows that Lydia would call bemused, if Derek would ever deign to such a thing. 

“What are you up to, Lydia?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re referring to.” The truth is that she’s always up to something, but they agreed years ago that he wouldn’t ask, for his own good. 

There’s a long pause before he taps a thick, dark envelope lying on the desk. 

“You’ll be interested to hear, then, that we’ve received an invitation to attend a dinner party at the Argent residence.” 

“It seems a reasonable move on their part. Strategic, really. It solidifies the appearance of participation in our new agreement, while still putting them in a position of power as the hosts. Clever.” 

“And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the Argent girl wants to climb you like a tree.” 

A denial starts to roll off Lydia’s lips, calm and collected as ever, and then she stops. Breathes in. Stares Derek straight in the eye. 

“Yes. Yes, I imagine it does.” 

“Good. I’ll let them know we’re coming.”

He actually laughs at the stunned expression on her face. She throws a couch pillow at his head, and he only laughs harder. 

The sound of it follows her all the way out into the hall. If she leans against the wall for just a moment, weak with gratitude, there’s no one there to catch her at it. 

*

Lydia prepares for the evening as if she were preparing for battle. The precise swipe of her eyeliner and the delicate height of her heels are weapons; the sleek silk green of her dress and the fine red swing of her hair serve as armor. 

Somewhere, she knows, Allison is going through the same motions. They haven’t so much as kissed yet, but Lydia’s already burning with the thought of touching her tonight; the two of them together will be a conflagration. 

Erica lets out a long, low whistle when Lydia joins them in the foyer of the Hale house. Stiles holds out his knuckles for a fist bump, which she ignores in favor of taking Derek’s arm. They spend the ride reviewing protocol and plans - determining which connections should be made, who to approach, the sort of thing that usually fascinates Lydia. Tonight, she’s just going through the motions, three-quarters of her attention focused on all of the evening’s... possibilities. 

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that even one quarter of Lydia’s brain is better than the entirety of most people’s. 

The mansion is lit up and glittering when they arrive, long limos depositing guests in attire just as sparkling. Lydia and Derek lead their Family in, her hand on his arm, his fingers curling over hers to hide her white knuckles. 

Christopher and Victoria Argent greet them at the door as Lydia schools her face into a charming, _I have no intention of sleeping with your daughter_ , kind of smile. She compliments Victoria’s silver gown, makes polite small talk, ignores the way Derek and Chris glare at each other; she whirls into a dance, and then another, drinks a glass of prosecco and debates the best high end sources for black market technology. Through all of it she’s watching out of the corner of her eye for a flash of brown curls, a bright smile. 

Somehow, though, a warm touch at the small of her back catches Lydia off guard. She turns into it, and -

and -

 _damn_. 

Lydia Martin is not the kind of woman who allows her breath to be stolen. If she was, though, Allison in a floor-length, scarlet sheath of a dress, bare shoulders glowing... it would do the trick. Three seconds pass before she rallies enough to gesture towards the bar. Three long seconds in which Allison smirks ,completely aware of the effect she was having; intolerable, but for the slick wetness between Lydia’s thighs, soaking through the sheer lace of her panties. Lydia lets the feeling wind through her, doesn’t pull her eyes from Allison’s even as she slides onto a stool and orders a cocktail. Not until their drinks arrive does she look down, and then only to watch the way Allison’s lips curve around a swallow of her Manhattan. 

Lydia’s gin & tonic is crisp and bright against her tongue, but her drink can’t distract from the sudden shock of Allison’s fingers brushing against the inside of her knee. 

“You look lovely,” Allison says, leaning forward until Lydia can feel each word warm against her ear. Allison’s fingers trail up and up, tangling in the hem of Lydia’s dress. Her skin tingles and sings, but she doesn’t intend to be beaten at a game she’s been playing since she was old enough to understand the rules. 

She tilts her head slightly, just enough to put a hint of her perfume in the air before pulling back to take another sip of her drink. “Yes, I do. But surely you can do better than meaningless pleasantries.” 

Nails dig into Lydia’s thigh. “Come upstairs. Let me show you.” 

*

The bedroom door has barely closed before Allison has her up against it, face pressed to the cool surface as her zipper snicks down ever-so-slowly and Allison’s mouth follows. 

“This is vintage Prada, isn’t it?” The sentences are broken by biting kisses pressed to Lydia’s spine. “Better get it off before you make a mess of it.” Lydia gasps as Allison sucks a mark above her tailbone, right where the zipper ends. She can feel the sting already, the pulse of blood rising in sensitive skin. The dress falls away, slithering down her body; victory is sharp and sweet in Lydia’s stomach when Allison pulls in a breath at the sight of her in nothing but sheer black lace. 

Turning, she wraps a leg around Allison’s hip and pulls her even closer. “Planning on getting me dirty, are you?” There’s no time for Allison to respond before Lydia’s fingers tangle in her hair and drag her into a kiss. Everything is push and pull, frantic - slick lips and wet tongues, hands tugging and gripping, ungentle. 

By the time they stumble onto the bed, Lydia is in nothing but her stiletto heels, her expensive lingerie littering the floor. She shoves Allison’s knees apart and crawls between them, dragging her tongue over Allison’s pink panties. They’re wet already, molded to Allison’s cunt, and god, but Lydia wants to _devour_ her. 

She loses herself in it, teasing at Allison’s clit through thin mesh, slipping her thumbs underneath to spread Allison wide open. 

“Lydia, more, god, _please_ -” Everything about Allison is tight and ready, a flush high on her cheekbones, sheets bunching between her fingers, straining towards her orgasm, so gorgeous that Lydia shakes with need. She leans up for a kiss, letting Allison taste the salt-sweet flavor herself on Lydia’s tongue.

“You want more?” Lydia asks, breathing the question into the space between them. “Take it.” 

They fight for it, burning, skin slick with sweat as they writhe against each other. This, the challenge, the hard, hot thrill of it, this was what Lydia has been missing, been craving. Allison’s leg between her thighs, grinding against Lydia’s cunt; the snarl in Allison’s voice as she flips them, pinning Lydia to the bed and biting her nipples red and puffy; Lydia’s teeth digging into Allison’s shoulder in response. Together, they’re sleek and incendiary and god, she’s going to come, just like this, riding Allison’s leg with four fingers buried in that perfect cunt. 

“Come on, Argent, do it, come for me -” Just a little more, Christ, she’s so _close_ , dripping wet -

“You - oh - first, Martin-” and Allison’s grabbing Lydia’s hips and shoving up with her knee and Lydia is gone, white-hot and molten, coming slick across Allison’s skin even as she twists her thumb tight against Allison’s clit and drags Allison over the edge with her. 

*

They sneak down the back stairs, all quickly-hushed laughter and teasing kisses, to slide into Allison’s Mustang. The top’s down, Allison’s foot heavy on the gas, and Lydia knows her hair will be a mess, her Prada dress impossibly wrinkled, but for once, she can’t find it in herself to care. 

What the Families will think, the ramifications their relationship might have… She doesn’t have the faintest idea, but she twines her fingers through Allison’s where they rest on the gear shift, squeezes hard, and lets everything else go.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "I'm Only Happy when it Rains," by Garbage. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my ever-perfect beta, [jacyevans](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans). She could tell you more about what inspired this story, but then she'd have to kill you.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://thatworldinverted.tumblr.com). There are cookies!


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